


Valor

by Numdenu (GlobalCooldown)



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Allusions to canon-typical violence, An eldritch god kind of has to watch and absolutely hates it, Anal Sex, Kind of a long setup, M/M, Older Characters, Other characters get cameos, Snark, There is also a blowjob, Well that escalated quickly, Wyrd Reconstruction, scar kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlobalCooldown/pseuds/Numdenu
Summary: An act of valor can sometimes have unintended consequences.





	Valor

**Author's Note:**

> I...noticed I posted this at the same time someone else posted a fic titled "Heroism". Whoops. Title change.

Alhazred found himself in the abbey, counting off prayer beads between his fingers, not actually praying so much as giving his hands something to do while he thought.

The last expedition into the Warrens was a blur. Every time he tried to think back on the particulars, the memories sloughed off his mind like sickness off of one of those infernal swine. He remembers darkness, yes, and that the expedition was supposed to be routine, uneventful. He stared horrors in the face and had been overcome with a crushing despair when he realized IT could come through, that his control over IT was only tenuous at best, and that he would be doing the world a favor if he perished before IT had ITS way.

A momentary psychosis, he told himself. Now that he was out of danger, he had reasserted his control. His body was intact, his mind was his own, and no one had perished on the expedition.

There was one man to thank for that. Alhazred stole a glance down the pew. Seated at the other end was the man-at-arms, Barristan, eye closed and holding another set of prayer beads. The old veteran had doffed his armor after they'd returned to town, and was now in his gambeson and leggings, his head resting against the back of the pew. Watching the other man now, he seemed as still as death - a far cry from the vigor he'd shown on the expedition.

That was the one moment Alhazred remembered at least somewhat clearly. He had fallen to his knees, his life ebbing from innumerable wounds, his head throbbing in time with the metallic clangs of something hitting a shield. Before him, Barristan suffered under a relentless flurry of blows from multiple swine, barely keeping his shield up.

And something inside the old veteran had snapped, something lit up in his eye, something raw and vivacious. "I am your wall!" he'd bellowed. "I won't let you fall!"

Barristan had been speaking to him. Roaring defiantly against the dark to save him. So he'd gripped his skull he used as a focus and willed his flesh to knit, just enough to prolong his life.

After they'd returned from the expedition, he'd let Barristan lead him to the abbey. Alhazred still wasn't sure why, but now that he'd regained control over his own mind, he could toy with those thoughts. Why did he let himself be brought here, when he didn't consider himself a follower of the Light? Barristan was no pious man, either; he'd seen the man-at-arms embark on expeditions with Bigby, the branded man, the so-called "abomination" (Abomination? Ridiculous, any beast could be domesticated, and Bigby seemed to have his in hand).

Alhazred worried a bead between his thumb and forefinger as he brought his thoughts back around with a practiced ease. He supposed he let Barristan lead him because the other man had stuck out in his stress-addled thoughts. There had been something about that man, in that moment, something that made him seem...if Alhazred was being both completely honest and utterly foolish, heroic.

Why they came to the abbey...now that was lost on him. He supposed it couldn't hurt to ask.

"Barristan?" Alhazred spoke softly, so he wouldn't disturb the relative quiet of the abbey.

There was no reply.

"Barristan?" Alhazred repeated, leaning toward the other man to scrutinize him. He seemed so relaxed, so at peace, it was almost as if he was...asleep? Yes, apparently. Asleep. He was actually asleep.

Alhazred reached out to nudge Barristan's shoulder, subtly at first, but growing more and more incessant until the other man finally woke with a soft grumble and a sniffle.

"If you're that tired, you could always retire for the evening," Alhazred gently ribbed.

Barristan harrumphed as he lifted his head. "I wasn't leaving you alone. Not with how you were speaking earlier."

The occultist felt two pangs: one of admiration for the man who was willing to stay with him when he was at his weakest, the other of embarrassment. "...Ah. I wasn't too much of a handful, I hope?"

"No, no," Barristan reassured. "Fair's fair. You saved my life, and we all made it home. It was the least I could do."

Alhazred quirked a quizzical eyebrow. "I seem to remember you were the one saving my life, actually."

"Then what would this be, hm?" The white-haired man rolled his sleeve up to the elbow. There, among the many long-healed nicks and scratches of battles long-past, was the telltale serpentine twisting of wyrdflesh, the unique scarring left by Alhazred's own healing abilities.

He felt his ears heat as his eyes locked onto the scar. Oh, no.

It was such a perfect scar, too. It wound around his arm like a river through a valley, a gaping wound coiled shut forever, a testament to the capabilities of mortal flesh to endure, to recover, to thrive--

"It was the least I could do," Alhazred offered weakly, wrenching his attention back to his prayer beads.

Barristan furrowed his brow, not sure what to think of the other man's reaction. "There's nothing wrong with my arm, is there?"

"No, no, not in the least. It healed...perfectly." The last word was barely a heated exhale as Alhazred's eyes fell on that scar again. His breath caught in his throat when Barristan leaned forward, practically offering his arm to him. "Ah...you shouldn't."

"And why not? You say it healed perfectly, but you're acting odd."

"Perfectly, yes, too perfectly. There's a reason I'm not allowed in the brothel anymore," he joked, before immediately kicking himself mentally for mentioning that incident.

That incident was when he asked if he could use his reconstruction on a hapless brothel worker, just so he could see how the flesh would contort. It wouldn't actually hurt; it was a healing ritual! He'd never dream of hurting a lover! But all the wenches and gigolos were soft and smooth-skinned, unmarred by adversity or triumph. The owner disagreed with his tastes, of course, and he was forever branded as 'the man with the scar fetish'.

For now, his joking tone seemed to have saved him. Barristan laughed, covering his mouth with his hand in an attempt to stay at an acceptable volume. "I can't tell if you're serious or not!"

Alhazred allowed himself a chuckle, and decided to leave it at that.

When their laughter died down, there was an odd twinkle in Barristan's one eye, just for a moment, before he turned away. "Ah, I'm too old for you anyway."

Silence, for a heartbeat.

"You say that as if you were interested." Alhazred noted.

Barristan shook his head and said nothing more, making a point of focusing on his prayer beads.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

The tavern was typically quiet in the middle of the afternoon. Those who didn't have a home to return to for lunch had come and gone, and the crowd of evening carousers wouldn't arrive for another hour, at least.

It had been two days since the abbey, three since Alhazred had returned from the expedition. Predictably, he'd already heard mutterings about the estate's heir already planning the next sortie. It didn't sound like Alhazred was being considered, thankfully. He would have the week to himself, and he planned to begin his convalescence with an early supper, followed by a night of study and communion with the void.

He was surprised to find Barristan in the corner of the tavern, with a small table to himself, half a tankard of ale ignored in favor of a book.

Heroic, scarred, and literate, Alhazred thought. His gaze lingered a little too long, enough for Barristan to notice. When the other man looked up, he was able to recover with a friendly smile and a nod of greeting.

Barristan waved him over.

Oh no.

Determined to keep his composure--this was a safe place, there was no reason he should not be the master of his own mind here--Alhazred ambled over and sat across from Barristan. "I didn't think I'd see you here."

"Or I, you." Barristan lifted his once-forgotten tankard. "It's good to see you're doing better."

"I wonder who I have to thank for that," Alhazred needled.

"What, this again? You don't need to thank me. It was the least I could do."

He should've expected that response. Not wanting to debate, Alhazred turned his attention to the book in Barristan's hand. "What are you reading?"

"Trash," Barristan answered with a sardonic smile.

"Trash? Nonsense. It's literature!" Alhazred craned his neck, attempting to get a better view of the book's title. Barristan responded by setting it down on the table and letting the other man at it.

As the occultist skimmed the pages, his genial smile became strained, then collapsed. "...This is trash," he finally announced, dark eyes flicking up to the other man's face for some sort of explanation. But Barristan gave none, instead opting to take a drink.

Alhazred's eyes narrowed. "Why are you reading this?"

"Our younger comrades in arms are brought up on this hogwash." Barristan set the mug down with an audible thunk and shook his head. "If I have to debunk these fairy tales and show them what war is really like, it helps to know what happens in the damned things."

"Ever the soldier, aren't you," Alhazred remarked. He closed the book, more gingerly than the drivel deserved, and offered it back to its owner. Barristan took it back, his gnarled fingers brushing against Alhazred's--

A scar. A nigh-imperceptible, minuscule imperfection of puckered flesh, an injury healed, a challenge overcome. Alhazred kept his hand perfectly still, for after all, what was an inconsequential bumping of hands with an ally? Nothing of any import, none at all, were it not for the fact that Barristan held there, the book kept in a vicegrip and yet completely forgotten.

His lone eye seemed to study Alhazred's hand a moment before unfocusing. "Hmph. A soldier's life is all I've ever known. It's all there is for me. I'm sure you want to hear all about it, too, about my 'glory days' and how I got all those scars." His grumbling was a curious mix of resigned and resentful.

Alhazred considered his answer a moment, judging Barristan's words and tone; it seemed like the other man would rather not revisit any bitter memories. He couldn't deny his curiosity, but he couldn’t deny that it wasn't the story behind the scars that attracted him, either. It was the flesh itself, the myriad ways a wound could heal.

So he admitted, "I can admire a scar without knowing where it came from. If you'd rather not share, so be it."

Barristan raised his gaze to meet Alhazred's a moment, searching, before he looked back to their hands, still touching, neither having moved an inch. He let the book fall out of his grip and turned his palm upward, as if putting it on display, or offering it.

Even without the scars, to take someone's hand in your own and examine it would be an incredibly intimate act. Though he was keenly aware of what this could mean and how it could be interpreted, Alhazred wordlessly took the hand in both of his, inspecting it closely, feeling out all the calluses and imperfections, until he rediscovered that faint little scar on the base of the middle finger and stroked it with his thumb. He couldn't help himself, not when he was offered the opportunity.

"Scars, huh?" Barristan muttered. "Why scars?"

"I'm not sure there's a why," Alhazred confessed. "I simply find them fascinating. This one, here, it's such a trifle, and yet...." He trailed off, realizing the normal rhetoric he used to justify his interest might not be the best idea here. Scars used to be injuries, yes, injuries that were healed and overcome, but phrasing it like that might suggest he was looking for a story Barristan was unwilling to share. After a moment of consideration, he tried rephrasing it: "I think it's interesting how many ways a body can heal."

The older man nodded, saying nothing.

He had a thoughtful expression, Alhazred noted, like when he reviewed tactics and stratagems beside the campfire on expeditions. Thinking ahead. Considering his options. Observing. Deciding on a course of action.

The tavern door swung open, interrupting both of their thoughts. A small, but rowdy group, the first of the evening's revelers, bustled in amid their own laughter. Alhazred's ear immediately picked up on the boisterous laugh of Boudica, the glaive-wielding hellion, among the gathering. This would not be a quiet night; anyone who valued their ability to think clearly would flee the tavern right about now.

"Sounds like I'll have to finish reading another time," Barristan grumped. His hand slid out from between Alhazred's fingers to scoop up his book.

Alhazred gave him a smirk. "Yes, you'll have to put off your trash. What a travesty."

Snickering, Barristan rose to his feet. "Enjoy the evening, Alhazred. I appreciate the company." And with little more than the exchange of nods farewell, he was off, out the door and into the evening air.

After waiting a few moments, to be sure he wouldn't be following too closely, Alhazred approached the barkeep and bought a hunk of bread and some cheese, a meal he could take with him. He didn't want to endure the raucous evening crowds, but he'd be damned before he performed any rituals on an empty stomach, if he could help it.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

"I don't know if he fancies me or not, and I don't know why I care." With a sigh, Alhazred leaned back against the wall, his head making a dull thunk against it as he closed his eyes.

In the center of the room, Paracelsus, the plague doctor, was elbows-deep in a dissected fish-man from the Cove. "Are you done?"

"I'm not sure what to do. Should I pursue him?"

"Sure." Something made an unwholesome squelching noise under Paracelsus' scalpel. "Whatever."

He didn't expect Paracelsus to be much help, honestly. He just needed someone to bounce thoughts off of, someone who would only judge him for being a nuisance, and not for having an attraction to an older man.

Not that Alhazred was any spring chicken himself; not by a long shot. But while any noticeable amount of gray hair eluded him, his age was beginning to show in other ways, like the veins on his hands, the crow's feet by his eyes, the occasional creaky back, and IT gnawing at the back of his mind every so often, you know, normal signs of growing old that normal humans experienced.

But he had to admit, all these musings on his own mortality were in large part to help him feel better about his undeniable attraction. Barristan was healthy, robust, and powerfully built, but obviously in his twilight years.

Why had Barristan offered his hand, back in the tavern? Alhazred could still remember the texture of that soft little divot of scar tissue, the warmth and unexpected strength of the hand itself, and how the other man was so willing to let him explore it. Why? Was Barristan, in fact, interested in him? Might he have been flirting earlier? Or at the very least, inviting pursuit?

Heroic, yes, and scarred, literate, strategically-minded, and still handsome, even at his age. A fine catch of a man.

But what truly convinced Alhazred, of all things, was IT. He could feel IT at the back of his mind, and IT was groaning in annoyance at his lovestruck thoughts, trying in vain to bat them away, powerless to pervert them. True, any lover would be at risk of drawing ITS attention, but so were his comrades and friends, and if the foray into the Warrens was any indication, Barristan would accept this risk.

In the meantime, IT absolutely reviled the idea of any sort of relationship, so that meant he should pursue exactly that.

Alhazred opened his eyes and pushed off the wall with a self-assured smile. "Paracelsus? I've a favor to ask of you."

 

\-----------------------------------

 

It was a pleasant night outside. Alhazred left his macabre focus, a human skull adorned with a single candle, flickering on the windowsill as he filed away his notes for the evening. Another successful and enlightening night of rituals, peeling back another layer of obfuscation around the world's deepest mysteries, peering into the machinations of the furthest stars. But now, it was late, and the human mind functioned at its best when it was well-rested.

In his quiet corner of the barracks, as he was undoing his turban, Alhazred spied movement outside. Whoever or whatever it was, it was slow and meandering, almost certainly not a threat. He leaned closer to the window, cupping a hand over his focus' flame so he could see out into the night.

Barristan. Barristan was outside, shuffling his feet along the darkened dirt roads, not really going anywhere.

Alhazred cast a glance back to his cot for a brief moment of consideration. Even if nothing came of the encounter, if something was keeping Barristan awake, he might appreciate the company. So, careful not to wake his bunkmates in the crowded barracks, he took up his focus and crept out, mindful to close the door behind him.

He caught up with Barristan near the hamlet's well. The other man saw him coming; his focus wasn't bright enough to illuminate a dungeon corridor, but as the only light source other than the moon, it was noticeable from a ways off.

"I didn't expect to see you up this late," said Barristan, once he was close enough. "Where's your...your headwrap?"

"My turban?" Alhazred offered as his smile turned teasing. "I take it off to sleep when I'm not on an expedition. Contrary to popular belief, I do have hair."

Barristan considered him for a moment, before giving an affirming nod and turning to lean on the rough-hewn edge of the well. "Fine night, isn't it."

"It is."

"Not too cold, good for a walk."

"Do you normally enjoy nights like this, or is something keeping you awake?"

Barristan hung his head. "Is it that obvious?"

Instead of answering the question, Alhazred shifted closer, setting his focus down on the well's rim. "Is it anything you'd like to talk about?"

The conversation trailed into silence for several heavy moments, and Alhazred was wracking his mind for something to say, anything that could help smooth the moment over, before Barristan finally spoke. "I...lost a lot of good men, over my career as a soldier. Just following orders...."

Suddenly, the bout of vigor in the ruins made a lot more sense. Barristan had probably been terrified of losing a companion. Nothing personal, nothing profound, just raw, animal fear transmuted into heroism by the human intellect.

When it was clear he wasn't going to elaborate any more, Alhazred gave his elbow a subtle nudge. "If there is anything I can do, you need only to ask."

The hint of a smile crossed Barristan's face as he turned to look at the other man; he couldn't just glance over, as Alhazred was on the same side as his eyepatch. "What about you? What's kept you up this long?"

"Rituals," Alhazred answered, "and rumination."

"About?"

He decided honesty was the best approach, even if this wasn't the right moment to make a move. "About our moment earlier, in the tavern."

Barristan was quiet again, with that calculating look in his eye. But this time Alhazred met his gaze, held it, made his own observations and judgements. There was a certain strength to the other man, a noble cast to his features, and, after a moment, a strange warmth to him.

"I don't know why you would spend all day thinking about an old soldier like me," Barristan said softly.

Alhazred offered his hand, palm facing up. "Because you're worth thinking about, perhaps?"

Barristan accepted, placing his hand in the other man's. Alhazred stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, easily finding the same scar on the middle finger and rubbing it in circles.

"Scars, huh?" he echoed.

Alhazred chuckled. "Scars, yes. I'm sure you've figured out what I think of them by now."

With his other hand, Barristan tugged on his sleeve, pulling it back to the elbow. His forearm was thick with muscle, dotted with gray hairs and marked by the subtle swirl of well-healed wyrdflesh. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.

Alhazred slid his fingers up the other man's arm, caressing the hardened, puckered skin. His bemused smile managed to hide the fact that his heart was pounding. "And what do you want me to do with this, hm?"

A small smirk played across Barristan's face. "That depends on what you're willing to do, doesn't it."

"Barristan, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were flirting with me."

"Would you like that?" There was an earnestness to the question that Alhazred didn't expect, and it made his breath catch in his throat.

Instead of answering outright, he drew closer to Barristan, his hand creeping up the other's arm, under the fabric of the sleeve, his breath hitching anew when his fingertips discovered another well-healed scar. He was caught up in the moment, only dimly aware of IT in a forgotten corner of his consciousness, crushed by a deluge of humours, infatuation burning hotter than hellfire.

"I haven't been pursued in some time," Barristan mused, voice low and soft as he leaned in. "I didn't expect it. Especially not from a man, and especially not from one so strikingly handsome."

"A tragedy." Alhazred's eyes slid closed as their foreheads touched. "I'd expect a fine specimen like yourself to be fending off suitors."

Their lips met, at first soft and sensual. Barristan planted one firm hand on Alhazred's waist, letting him trace the scars up and down his other arm. The occultist responded by pressing his body closer. Then one's hand slipped lower, the other's teeth nipped at a bottom lip, and the kiss devolved into a frantic duel of tongues, the heat between them blazing like the fire of the stars.

Alhazred broke away first, gasping madly, the flush on his cheeks obvious despite the nighttime gloom and his dark skin. "Where...where do we go from here?"

"Into the forest," Barristan answered, voice low and husky. "Far enough not to be heard, but close enough that we don't find trouble. That's where you have a proper tryst."

"How fortunate that you're an expert," Alhazred ribbed. Barristan responded with a huff and a skyward glance, but he was clearly playing up his irritation.

They exchanged another, briefer kiss - it was already getting difficult to keep their hands off each other - then Alhazred snatched his focus and the two men hurried toward the treeline.

Alhazred bit back a chuckle. He felt like a young man again, a wide-eyed student wondering at the world, hiding away with lovers in well-kept gardens or behind locked doors. None of his past affairs had escalated this quickly, but none of his past affairs had been with robust men with a plethora of scars to explore, and none had occurred when he was so, admittedly, touch-starved. Ever since that certain incident, he was forbidden from even the loveless embrace of a brothel worker; even if he wasn't, he would crave something more substantial, something with even an ounce of emotion behind it. He had a hunch Barristan felt the same way.

It was all they could do not to crash through the underbrush in their haste. They crouched together amid the roots of an old tree, still well within view of the hamlet; they'd both had their fair share of encounters with brigands and stranger creatures from deeper in the forest. Here, though, here would be safe enough.

Alhazred carefully set down his focus, somewhere out of the way but still plainly visible, so he wouldn't forget it. He turned when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye to find Barristan sitting back against the tree, one hand extended in invitation, the sleeve rolled back to his elbow so the twisted scar was on full display.

Forget flirting. Alhazred was certain this man was trying to outright seduce him. And it was working.

He took the offered hand - how could he not? - and let himself be pulled against the broad chest, let himself be wrapped up in thick arms as he dove in for another kiss, as heated as the first. As their tongues tangled again, he let his fingers wander down the other man's tunic, trying to guess through the fabric if there were any other scars to discover.

Barristan pulled his hands back to unfasten his belt and guide Alhazred's wandering fingers to the edge of his tunic. Once they slipped underneath and began gliding up his chest, his head fell back with a contented sigh, his eye twinkling as he watched his lover's face light up with delight.

Lover? Yes, an apt term, at least for now. The thought was trampled over by what Alhazred discovered. Scars. So many old wounds, large and small, soft and stiff, raised ridges and deep depressions, a kaleidoscope of textures and sensations. He pressed closer, burying his face in the other man's neck, wanting so desperately to feel those scars against his own skin.

In that moment of bliss, he was keenly aware of the grip on his hips and how he was situated between Barristan's legs. With a devilish smile, he decided then and there that if he was to be seduced, he was going to revel in every single imperfection he could find on this perfect man. And he would find them all.

Alhazred slipped from the other man's arms, only to nuzzle his stomach and run a hand over his thigh, an immodest proposal.

"Wouldn't you like to see," Barristan chuckled. In spite of his age, his arousal was growing more prominent with each breath. "Go on, then."

Alhazred eagerly tugged down the edge of the other man's pants, kissing a minor scratch that revealed itself in the process, until he could tease out the other man's erection. It wasn't the longest he'd seen, but it was delightfully thick and veiny.

He was out of practice, so he took it slow, easing the head into his mouth and giving it a few gentle sucks. He could feel Barristan's breath catch, and imagined all those scars on his chest fluttering, reacting....

Barristan was much more composed. He ran his fingers through Alhazred's dark hair, his touch gentle and his hips still, even as he whispered encouragement. "There, yes, like that. That's a good love." No doubt, the old veteran had been on the receiving end plenty of times, enough to know that pulling hair and bucking hips weren't always the best ideas.

A part of Alhazred wished he could be so disciplined. The freedom to explore so many scars on the body of such a wonderful man - a heroic, literate, intelligent, compassionate, charismatic man - why, his robes felt suffocating. He was almost painfully rigid underneath. But Alhazred was nothing if not the master of his own mind, so he willed himself to focus on the other man's pleasure, taking more of that temptingly thick cock into his mouth in an effort to entice Barristan to go further.

It worked. "Enough, Alhazred. Come here. Let me see the rest of you."

He gave Barristan one final suck and a kiss on the tip before pulling himself back up to eye level, a sultry smile on his face. To his amusement, the other man went immediately for his robes, stripping away layer after layer and tossing the cloth onto the ground with little care until he found the bare chest underneath.

Alhazred had his fair share of warped wyrdflesh left over from his healing rituals, and he wore it proudly. He was toned from travel, but not powerfully built, and his more scholarly physique contrasted with the twisting scars, much like his well-kept beard and waxed mustache clashed with the loose waves of hair he normally kept covered.

When Barristan didn't immediately speak, he canted his head to the side. "I don't look that horrible, do I?"

Barristan snorted and pulled him in by the hips, peppering his chest with kisses and little scrapes from his beard. Alhazred shuddered every time his lips found a scar; it was starting to get embarrassing just how easy he was to manipulate with his fascination alone, but right now he wasn't inclined to do anything about it.

When Barristan pulled off the last vestiges of robes trapping his erection, Alhazred gasped in relief. He heard the other man chuckle, no doubt entertained by how he was turgid, throbbing, and dribbling precum.

"If I was prepared for this, I bet I could finish you off without even touching that," Barristan speculated.

Alhazred's eyes suddenly widened as he remembered. Without bothering to explain, he snatched up the discarded robes, digging through them until he found the right pocket. "Ah ha!"

"Ah ha?" Barristan echoed.

With a grin, Alhazred produced a vial of lubricant - Paracelsus' favor to him.

Barristan scoffed. "You've been planning this, haven't you!"

"Not tonight, but I had hoped to use it at some point," Alhazred confessed.

"I cannot believe this," Barristan harrumphed. "Outmaneuvered and out-planned, by my own...!"

"Your own...?" Alhazred prompted with a wicked grin.

"Bah, come here, you incubus!" Barristan pulled him into a rough kiss, stifling the other man's laughter.

When they broke apart, Alhazred pressed the vial into Barristan's hand. "Your own what?"

Barristan shook his head.

"No, no, come on, tell me."

Barristan's one eye met Alhazred's for a moment, a fond smile creeping across his features. "Would it be too early to call you a lover?"

So it hadn't been just Alhazred considering it. He pretended to think the question over for a moment, not daring to hint at the warm glow in his chest. "So long as we're rushing into things, I don't see why not."

Barristan seemed equal parts aroused and relieved. "Then come here, lover."

Alhazred fell into the other man's arms once more, now with only one layer of cloth between his skin and Barristan's. He pawed at the hem, and Barristan acquiesced, allowing him to pull off the tunic and cast it aside. That man's scars, accumulated over a lifetime of battle, were now his to admire, and he groaned as he pressed his bare chest against them. Every injury, every wound overcome, in milky white and angry red and subtle tan, was his to explore; feeling the exquisite collection against his skin was bliss itself.

He was only dimly aware of the gentle, confident hands massaging his buttocks, at least until one finger pressed into him, slick with lubricant. His mouth fell open in a moan so needy, his pleasure-addled mind actually registered a twinge of self-consciousness. It was quickly forgotten in favor of unabashed schadenfreude when he briefly checked on IT in that forgotten corner of his mind, and found IT was still hating every second of this.

That doting finger moved in and out lazily, building anticipation with each little motion. Alhazred looped his arms around Barristan's neck and kissed his cheek, a gesture that was more affectionate than lustful. It may have been premature, but the other man's smile only grew, relishing the attention.

A second finger eased in alongside the first. Alhazred let it have a few languid thrusts before he nuzzled into Barristan's beard. "When are we getting to the good part?"

"Patience, you." Barristan tried to sound upset and failed miserably. "I want to be sure you're ready."

"You don't have to treat me like I'm fragile, you know."

"You're too important, I can't let you get uncomfortable."

A genuinely touching notion, but all his pent-up lust had been simmering since their kiss at the well, and Alhazred was getting impatient for some kind of release. He gave Barristan's earlobe a brief tug with his teeth. "Take me."

A breathy grumble. His lover's willpower was giving out.

"Baaaarristaaan," he whinged, one hand trailing down the other man's chest, drinking in the texture of all those lovely scars.

"Oh, fine," Barristan relented. With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself off the trunk of the tree, sitting upright, his strong arms keeping Alhazred from toppling backwards.

Alhazred found he was going to be on his back anyway, but apparently just letting him fall wasn't good enough for Barristan. No, he had to lower the both of them down gently, lovingly, until the occultist was comfortably sprawled out over all their discarded clothing.

Barristan set the other man's legs against his shoulders, taking the opportunity to admire the body below him, and giving Alhazred a chance to do the same.

As his eyes wandered between Barristan's scars and his noble features, Alhazred reached for his aching cock, just to relieve a little tension and enjoy the sight a bit longer.

Barristan frowned. "At least give me a chance."

"Then hurry up and take it," Alhazred laughed. "Your body only does me so much good when it's all the way over there."

"Do you ever stop?" Barristan griped as he lined himself up.

Alhazred could have concocted any number of comebacks, but he chose to focus on relaxing, instead. The anticipation was nerve-wracking; he trusted this man with his life, but it had been so long since he had a lover, and he craved the sort of attention only a lover could give.

Barristan entered him slowly, this time because he was savoring the moment, watching himself sink in. Alhazred's breath hitched, hands grasping at the robes underneath him; the other man felt even thicker than he looked, and that was saying something. For a moment, he wondered just how badly he was going to be limping tomorrow.

Then Barristan pushed in farther, and Alhazred found himself thoroughly distracted. He made a noise between a gasp and a moan as the sheer girth filled him up, rubbing against all the right spots. The other man only had to give an experimental rock of his hips to make his back arch.

"Easy, easy," Barristan murmured. "There's a lover. What a lover...."

Even his sweet-talk could make Alhazred's toes curl. It occurred to him that a man who led the long and lonely life of a soldier could've potentially taken more than a few lovers in his time. This man could be dangerously intoxicating. Intoxicatingly dangerous? No, he didn't usually have that sort of air about him -

A shift of the hips shorted out his thoughts again, eliciting another gasp of pleasure. His eyes widened as he realized Barristan might be testing angles, trying to find the one that would evoke the greatest response. "Oh, you cunning man," he whispered.

"Hm?" Barristan leaned in, not quite catching what he'd said. Thinking quickly, Alhazred flung his arms around the other man's neck and pulled him into a needy kiss, in an attempt to regain some semblance of control. Or to rile him up. His legs were now bent uncomfortably by the weight on top of them, knees nearly touching his ears, but it was a small price to pay. He wanted - no, needed - to see this impossibly wonderful man as quivering and desperate as he was.

It didn't help that a chest full of scars was so close to his own again. Curious, he let one hand creep over Barristan's back, and was delighted to feel another crooked line of wyrdflesh from another healing ritual. A wound he closed, Alhazred realized with a shudder. A scar he made. He'd left his mark on this man before he'd ever thought about taking him as a lover. The revelation gave him a perverse thrill.

Barristan picked up his pace. He grunted with the effort of each thrust, gripping Alhazred's thighs tightly enough to be almost painful. Beads of sweat were beginning to form along his brow and on his back.

Resisting the urge to let his head loll back in a haze of ecstacy, Alhazred craned his neck up enough to kiss the top of Barristan's head. Every breath was boiling, every motion accentuated by a primal urge, the drive of carnal instinct and the euphoric rush of having it answered, let loose, matched kiss for kiss, grope for grab, thrust for wordless plea. Alhazred was too proud a man to beg in any comprehensible language, but he was begging.

His prayers were answered as Barristan's groans grew louder, his pace more frantic. The sight alone, this man so in need of his body, so willing to call him a lover, would have made Alhazred weak in the knees, were he relying on them at the moment. The mounting pleasure was so great, he actually had to devote a token amount of his focus to keeping IT at bay; he did so by swarming IT with all the debauched fantasies of Barristan taking shape in his mind.

And that only made the pleasure greater. He struggled to keep some modicum of clear thought, and found it nearly impossible, until the moment where everything, everything, all his blazing lust, his burning infatuation, his searing hope for a more permanent romance poured out at once with a great cry.

As he lay there panting in the afterglow, he became aware of Barristan setting his legs down, then snaking those gnarled hands up his chest and over his shoulders, to plant them in the ground and lean over him. If Alhazred wasn't spent, he would have fallen for the man all over again; his gaze was heavy with desire, his cock painfully erect, and his chest, oh, his chest was the most splendid part of all. Among the scars was a splatter of white, decorating the ridges and pooling in the divots in his skin.

All without a scrap of attention for Alhazred's own member, he noted.

"You are a man of your word," Alhazred breathed. "Come here, let me return the favor."

Barristan chuckled and shook his head. "You don't need to. You were enough. More than enough."

Alhazred lazily dragged his fingers up the other's leg. "I insist."

Again, Barristan gave in, letting his lover take his cock in hand. He was still slick with lubricant, and he twitched at even the slightest touch, so Alhazred began with gentle strokes. "My, you must have been having fun with me."

All he got in response was a grunt. The poor man must have been so close to completion.

"You know," Alhazred mused, "I'll have to remember your techniques for next time. You're a skilled lover. We could have quite a bit of fun...."

Barristan lifted his gaze. "N-next time?" he managed between groans.

Alhazred's smile softened. "Next time." And he quickened his pace, pumping Barristan until he was a quivering, gasping mess.

It didn't take much. He really must have been close; he was trembling with the effort of staying upright and not bucking fruitlessly against the other man's hand. Alhazred combed through his hair, let him bury his head in the crook of the occultist's neck, and held him, gave him the affection he ached for, even as his ministrations brought him over the edge.

Barristan tensed and muffled his wail of pleasure in the other man's skin, then relaxed as he regained his senses. Remarkably, he stayed upright, never threatening to topple over from exhaustion. It gave Alhazred time to appreciate the new smear of cum on his stomach, a masterpiece to match the dripping scars on his lover's chest.

Lovers. He rolled the word around in his mind again. Tonight, they may have rutted like frantic animals, but he earnestly hoped this could be the beginning of something deeper. A lover. What a tantalizing little thought.

"Now...."

"Hm?" Alhazred turned his full attention to the other man.

"Now, you have to promise me...that there will be a next time," Barristan exhaled.

"I swear it on my very soul," Alhazred replied.

"Good." Barristan closed his eye and pressed their foreheads together. "I'll hold you to that."

"But you will hold me?"

He grunted and rolled onto his side, scooping the other man up in one arm. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"My arse, it would seem," Alhazred teased.

Barristan let out a long-suffering sigh, but he was unable to keep the smile from his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest: I'm still not entirely convinced this fanfic is real. But in case it's more than a fever dream, I'd like to thank you for reading, beg you for feedback, and apologize from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> This story was spawned from an unholy union of circumstance and poor decisions. It began when I came down with the flu. Just when I was beginning to recover from the worst of it, I had a dire toothache, and had to have a tooth pulled. On a potent cocktail of NyQuil for my nasal congestion and codeine for my aching jaw, I found myself loading up Darkest Dungeon.
> 
> It was on a foray into the dungeon, like any other, where the seed for this fic was planted. My Man-at-Arms was struggling to guard my Occultist, who was Hopeless and on Death's Door. Suddenly, the tide turned, and my Man-at-Arms became Vigorous. Immediately after his bellow of triumph, it was my Occultist's turn. He was able to heal himself for a grand total of 2. No bleed. He was saved.
> 
> I shared the story around a few Discord servers, since I thought it was a cool little bit of organic storytelling. I don't remember who said those damned three words: "I ship it".
> 
> And I, drug-addled fool that I was, decided that if someone shipped it, why, then it must be written, and that it must be smutty.
> 
> As my flu symptoms cleared, and the pain in my jaw progressed from "needs codeine" to "can get by with ibuprofen," my mind cleared and my faculties restored themselves. I looked upon my work in abject horror, realizing the full extent of what I had written: half plot setup that wanted to be a character study, half unabashed smutty lovemaking.
> 
> I tried to think back on the writing process, but I only remember two particulars.  
> The first was that I had used the "default" names for all the characters in this fanfic. This was because my actual Darkest Dungeon file had characters named the most inane things. While I shake my head at most of my actions while incapacitated, I will admit that most readers probably don't want to read about "Gizzard" taking it up the ass from "Kitty Mew Mew".  
> The second was that I had listened to piano covers of cheesy love songs while writing parts. I remember, with an all too painful clarity, that YouTube slipped a few Disney songs into my suggested videos. I will never forget Moana's cold, judgemental gaze, scrutinizing every dope-spawned word of sweaty geriatric manlove.
> 
> But in the end, here I am, posting this fanfiction anyway. Because it's the internet. The internet must have its porn, no matter how inane or ill-conceived.
> 
> Thank you for your time.


End file.
